to make of her, at least, a subaltern in intrigue, and to take her to
play _understudies_ to me: but I see that she has not the stuff in her;
she has a foolish ingenuousness, which has not even yielded to the
specific you have employed, though it be one which rarely fails; and it
is, according to me, the most dangerous disease a woman can have. It
denotes, above all, a weakness of character almost always incurable,
and opposed to everything; in such wise that, whilst we busied
ourselves in forming this little girl for intrigue, we should have
made nothing of her but a facile woman. Now I know nothing so insipid
as that idiotic facility, which surrenders without knowing how or why,
solely because it is attacked and knows not how to resist. This kind of
woman is absolutely nothing than a pleasure machine.
You will tell me that this is all there is to do, and that it is enough
for our plans. Well and good! But do not let us forget that, with that
kind of machine, everybody soon attains to a knowledge of the springs
and motors; in order therefore to employ this one without danger, one
must hasten, stop at the right moment and break it afterwards. In
truth, there will be no lack of means to disembarrass ourselves of it,
and Gercourt, at any rate, will shut it up securely, when it is our
pleasure. Indeed, when he can no longer doubt of his dishonour, when it
is quite public and notorious, what will it matter to us if he avenges,
provided that he do not console, himself? What I say of the husband,
you doubtless think of the mother; thus the affair is settled.
The course I deem the better, and upon which I have decided, has
induced me to conduct the little person somewhat rapidly, as you will
see by my letter; it also renders it most important that nothing should
be left in her hands which might compromise us, and I beg you to pay
attention to this. This precaution once taken, I charge myself with the
moral teaching; the rest concerns you. If, however, we see in the issue
that ingenuousness is cured, we have always time to change our project.
We should, in any case, have had, one day or other, to occupy ourselves
with what we are about to do: in no case will our pains be wasted.
Do you know that mine risked being so, and that the Gercourt’s star
came near to carrying the day over my prudence? Did not Madame de
Volanges show a moment of maternal weakness? Did she not want to marry
her daughter to Danceny? It was that which was presaged by that more
tender interest which you remarked “_the day after_.” It is you again
who would have been the cause of this noble masterpiece! Luckily, the
tender mother wrote to me, and I hope that my reply will disillusion
her. I talk so much virtue in it, and above all I flatter her so, that
she is bound to think I am right.
I am sorry that I have not found time to make a copy of my letter, to
edify you with the austerity of my morals. You would see how I despise
women who are so depraved as to take a lover! ’Tis so convenient to be
a rigorist in conversation! It does no hurt, except to others, and in
no way impedes ourselves.... And then, I am quite aware that the good
lady had her little peccadillos like any other in her young days, and
I was not sorry to humiliate her, at least before her conscience; it
consoled me a little for the praises I gave her against my own. It was
similarly that, in the same letter, the idea of harming Gercourt gave
me the courage to speak well of him.
Adieu, Vicomte; I thoroughly approve the course you adopt in remaining
some time where you are. I have no means of spurring on your progress:
but I invite you to distract yourself with our common pupil. As for
myself, in spite of your obliging summons, you see well that you have
still to wait, and you will doubtless admit that it is not my fault.
Paris, 3rd October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND SEVENTH
AZOLAN TO THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT
MONSIEUR,
Conformably to your orders, I went, immediately on the receipt of your
letter, to M. Bertrand, who gave me the twenty-five louis, as you had
ordered him. I asked him for two more for Philippe, whom I had told
to set off immediately, as Monsieur had commanded me, and who had no
money; but your man of business would not do so, saying that he had
no order from you for that. I was obliged therefore to give him these
myself, and Monsieur will hold me acquitted of them, if it be his good
pleasure.
Philippe set off yesterday evening. I strongly impressed upon him not
to leave the inn, so that we might be certain of finding him if we had
need of him.
I went immediately afterwards to Madame la Présidente’s to see
Mademoiselle Julie; but she was gone out, and I could only speak with
La Fleur, from whom I could learn nothing, as, since his arrival, he
has only been to the house at meal-times. It is the second lackey who
does all the service, and Monsieur knows that I was not acquainted with
him. But I began to-day.
I returned this morning to Mademoiselle Julie, and she seemed delighted
to see me. I questioned her upon the cause of her mistress’s return;
but she told me that she knew naught of it; and I believe she told
the truth. I reproached her with having failed to inform me of her
departure, and she assured me that she had not known it till the night
before, when putting Madame to bed; so that she spent all the night in
packing, and the poor wench had not two hours’ sleep. She did not leave
her mistress’s chamber that night until past one, and left her just as
she was sitting down to write.
In the morning, Madame de Tourvel, before leaving, handed a letter to
the porter of the _château_. Mademoiselle Julie does not know for whom:
she says that it was, perhaps, for Monsieur; but Monsieur does not
speak of it.
During the whole journey, Madame had a great hood over her face; by
reason of this one could not see her: but Mademoiselle Julie feels
assured that she often wept. She did not speak one word, and she would
not halt at...,[4] as she had done on her coming, which was none too
pleasing to Mademoiselle Julie, who had not breakfasted. But, as I said
to her, the masters are the masters.
On arriving, Madame went to bed: but she only remained there two hours.
On rising, she summoned her Swiss, and gave him orders to admit nobody.
She made no toilette at all. She sat down to table for dinner, but only
took a little soup, and went away at once. Her coffee was brought to
her room, and Mademoiselle Julie entered at the same time. She found
her mistress arranging papers in her writing-desk, and she saw that
they were letters. I would wager that they were those from Monsieur;
and of the three which came to her in the afternoon, there was one
which she had still before her all the evening. I am quite certain that
it is also one from Monsieur. But why then did she leave like this?
That is what astounds me. For that matter, Monsieur is sure to know,
and it is no business of mine.
Madame la Présidente went in the afternoon to the library, and took
thence two books which she carried to her _boudoir_: but Mademoiselle
Julie is certain that she did not read a quarter of hour in them during
the whole day, and that she does nothing but read this letter and
dream, with her head resting on her hand. As I thought that Monsieur
would be pleased to know what these books are, and as Mademoiselle
Julie could not say, I obtained admission to the library under the
pretence of wishing to see it. There are only two books missing: one
is the second volume of the _Pensées chrétiennes_, and the other, the
first of a book entitled _Clarissa_. I write the name as it is written:
Monsieur will, perhaps, know what it is.
Yesterday evening, Madame did not sup; she only took some tea.
She rang at an early hour this morning; asked at once for her horses,
and went, before nine o’clock, to the Bernardines, where she heard
mass. She wished to confess; but her confessor was away, and he will
not return for a week or ten days. I thought it well to inform Monsieur
of this.
She returned immediately, breakfasted, and then began to write, and
she remained thus for nearly an hour. I soon found occasion to do what
Monsieur desired the most; for it was I who carried the letters to the
post. There was none for Madame de Volanges: but I send one to Monsieur
which was for M. le Président: it seemed to me that this should be the
most interesting. There was one also for Madame de Rosemonde; but I
imagined that Monsieur could always see that when he wished, and I let
it go. For the rest, Monsieur is sure to know everything, since Madame
la Présidente has written to him also. I shall in the future obtain
all those which Monsieur desires; for it is Mademoiselle Julie, almost
every day, who gives them to the servants, and she has assured me that,
out of friendship for me, and for Monsieur too, she will gladly do what
I want.
She did not even want the money which I offered her: but I feel sure
that Monsieur would like to make her some little present; and if this
is his wish, and he is willing to charge me with it, I shall easily
find out what will give her pleasure.
I hope that Monsieur will not think that I have shown any negligence
in his service, and I have set my heart on justifying myself against
the reproaches he makes me. If I did not know of Madame la Présidente’s
departure, it was, on the contrary, my zeal in Monsieur’s service which
was the cause, since it was that which made me start at three o’clock
in the morning; which was the reason that I did not see Mademoiselle
Julie the night before, as usual, having gone to Tournebride to sleep,
so that I might not have to arouse the _château_.
As for the reproach Monsieur makes me of being often without money;
first, it is because I like to keep myself decent, as Monsieur may see;
and then one must maintain the honour of the coat one wears: I know,
indeed, that I ought, perhaps, to save a little for the future; but I
trust entirely to the generosity of Monsieur, who is so good a master.
As for entering the service of Madame de Tourvel whilst remaining in
that of Monsieur, I beg that Monsieur will not require this of me. It
was very different with Madame la Duchesse; but certainly I would not
wear a livery, and a livery of the robe no less, after having had the
honour of being Monsieur’s _chasseur_. In every other way, Monsieur may
dispose of him who has the honour to remain, with as much affection as
respect, his most humble servitor.
ROUX AZOLAN, _chasseur_.
Paris, 5th October, 17**, at eleven o’clock at night.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND EIGHTH
THE PRÉSIDENTE DE TOURVEL TO MADAME DE ROSEMONDE
O MY indulgent mother, how many thanks I have to render you, and what
need I had of your letter! I have read it again and again; I cannot put
it away from me. I owe to it the few less painful moments I have spent
since my departure. How good you are! Prudence and virtue know then how
to compassionate weakness! You take pity on my ills! Ah, if you knew
them! ... they are terrible. I thought I had experienced the pains of
love; but the inexpressible torment, that which one must have felt to
have any idea of it, is to be separated from the object of one’s love,
to be separated for ever!... Yes, the pain which crushes me to-day will
return to-morrow, the day after, all my life! My God, how young I am
still, and how long a time I have to suffer!
To be one’s self the architect of one’s own misery; to tear out one’s
heart with one’s own hands; and, whilst suffering these insupportable
sorrows, to feel at each instant that one can make them cease with a
word, and that this word is a crime! Ah, my friend!...
When I adopted this painful course, and separated myself from him,
I hoped that absence would augment my courage and my strength: how
greatly I was deceived! It seems, on the contrary, as though it had
completed the work of destruction. I had more to struggle against,
’tis true: but, even while resisting, all was not privation; at least
I sometimes saw him; often even, without daring to direct my eyes
towards him, I felt his own were fixed on me. Yes, my friend, I felt
them; it seemed as though they warmed my soul; and without passing
through my eyes, they none the less arrived at my heart. Now, in my
grievous solitude, isolated from all that is dear to me, closeted with
my misfortune, every moment of my sorrowful existence is marked by my
tears, and nothing sweetens its bitterness; no consolation is mingled
with my sacrifices; and those I have thus far made have only served to
render more dolorous those which are left to make.
Yesterday again, I had a lively feeling of this. Amongst the letters
they brought me, there was one from him; they were still two paces off
from me when I recognized it amongst the rest. I rose involuntarily,
I trembled, I could hardly hide my emotion; and this state was not
altogether unpleasant. A moment later, finding myself alone, this
deceitful sweetness soon vanished, and left me but one sacrifice the
more to make. Could I actually open this letter, which, however, I
burned to read? In the fatality which pursues me, the consolations
which seem to present themselves do nothing, on the contrary, but
impose fresh privations; and those become crueller still from the
thought that M. de Valmont shares them.
There it is at last, that name which so constantly fills my mind, and
which it costs me so much to write; the sort of reproach you make me
really alarmed me. I beg you to believe that a false shame has not
altered my confidence in you; and why should I fear to name him? Ah, I
blush for my sentiments, but not for the object which causes them! Who
other than he is worthy to inspire them? However, I know not why, this
name does not come naturally to my pen; and, even this time, I had need
of reflexion to write it. I return to him.
You tell me that he seemed to you _keenly grieved at my departure_.
What, then, did he do? What did he say? Did he speak of returning to
Paris? I beg you to dissuade him as much as you can. If he has judged
me aright, he cannot bear me any ill-will for this step: but he must
feel also that it is a course from which there is no return. One of
my greatest torments is not to know what he thinks. I have still his
letter there ... but you are surely of my opinion that I ought not to
open it.
It is only through you, my indulgent friend, that I can feel myself
not entirely separated from him. I would not abuse your kindness; I
understand, perfectly, that your letters cannot be long ones: but you
will not deny your child two words; one to sustain her courage, and the
other to console her. Adieu, my venerable friend.
Paris, 5th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND NINTH
CÉCILE VOLANGES TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
IT is only to-day, Madame, that I have given M. de Valmont the letter
which you have done me the honour to write me. I kept it for four days,
in spite of the alarm which I often felt lest it should be found; but I
concealed it very carefully; and, when my grief once more seized me, I
shut myself up to reperuse it.
I quite see that what I believed to be so great a misfortune is hardly
one at all; and I must confess that there is certainly pleasure in
it: so much so that I hardly grieve about it any more. It is only the
thought of Danceny which still sometimes torments me. But there are
already moments when I do not think of him at all! Moreover it is true
that M. de Valmont is mighty amiable!
I was reconciled with him two days ago: it was very easy for me; for I
had but said two words to him, when he told me that, if I had anything
to say to him, he would come to my chamber in the evening, and I only
had to answer that I was very willing. And then, as soon as he had
come there, he seemed no more vexed than if I had never done anything
to him. He did not scold me till afterwards, and then very gently; and
it was in a manner ... just like you; which proved to me that he also
had much friendship for me. I should not know how to tell you all the
odd things he related to me, and which I never should have believed,
particularly about Mamma. You would give me much pleasure by telling
me if it is all true. What is very sure is that I could not restrain
my laughter; so that once I burst out laughing, which gave us a mighty
fright: for Mamma might have heard; and if she had come to see, what
would have become of me? I am sure she would have sent me to the
convent that very moment.
As we must be prudent, and as M. de Valmont has told me himself that
he would not risk compromising me for anything in the world, we have
agreed that henceforward he should only come to open the door, and that
we should go to his room. In that, there is nothing to fear; I have
already been there, yesterday, and even now, while I write to you, I am
again expecting him to come. Now, Madame, I hope you will not scold me
any more.
There is one thing, however, which has greatly surprised me in your
letter; it is what you tell me against the time when I am married,
with regard to Danceny and M. de Valmont. I fancy that one day, at the
Opera, you told me, on the contrary, that, once married, I could only
love my husband, and that I should even have to forget Danceny: for
that matter, I may have misunderstood you, and I would far rather have
it different, as now I shall not be so much afraid of the time for my
marriage. I even desire it, since I shall have more liberty; and I hope
then that I shall be able to arrange in such a fashion that I need only
think of Danceny. I feel sure that I shall never be really happy except
with him: for the idea of him always torments me now, and I have no
happiness except when I succeed in not thinking of him, which is very
difficult; and, as soon as I think of him, I at once become sad again.
What consoles me a little is that you assure me Danceny will love me
the more for this: but are you quite certain?... Oh, yes, you would not
deceive me! It is amusing, however, that it is Danceny I love, and that
M. de Valmont.... But, as you say, perhaps it is fortunate! Well, we
shall see.
I understood none too well what you said about my fashion of writing.
It seems to me that Danceny finds my letters good as they are. I quite
feel, however, that I ought to tell him nothing of what passes with M.
de Valmont: thus you have no reason to be afraid.
Mamma has not yet spoken to me of my marriage: but let her do so; when
she speaks to me of it, since it is to entrap me, I promise you I shall
know how to lie.
Adieu, my dear, kind friend; I thank you mightily, and I promise you I
will never forget all your kindnesses to me. I must finish now; it is
near one o’clock; so M. de Valmont cannot be long now.
At the Château de ..., 10th October, 17**.
LETTER THE HUNDRED AND TENTH
THE VICOMTE DE VALMONT TO THE MARQUISE DE MERTEUIL
“_Powers of Heaven! I had a soul for sorrow, grant me one now for
felicity._”[5] It is the tender Saint-Preux, I think, who thus
expresses himself. Better balanced than he, I possess these two
existences at once. Yes, my friend, I am at the same time most happy
and most miserable; and since you have my entire confidence, I owe you
the double relation of my pleasures and my pains.
Know then that my ungrateful Puritan treats me ever with the same
rigour. I am at the fourth letter which has been returned. Perhaps I am
wrong to call it the fourth; for, having excellently well divined, on
the return of the first, that it would be followed by many others, and
being unwilling thus to waste my time, I adopted the course of turning
my complaints into commonplaces, and putting no date: and, since the
second post, it is always the same letter which comes and goes; I
merely change the envelope. If my fair one ends as ordinarily end the
fair, and softens, if only from lassitude, she will keep the missive
at last; and it will be time enough then to pick up the threads. You
see that, with this new manner of correspondence, I cannot be perfectly
well informed.
I have discovered, however, that the fickle creature has changed her
confidant: at least, I have made sure that, since her departure from
the _château_, no letter has come for Madame de Volanges, whilst there
have been two for the old Rosemonde; and, as the latter says nothing
to us of them, as she no longer opens her mouth on the subject of
_her dearest fair_, of whom previously she never ceased to speak, I
concluded that it was she who had her confidence. I presume that, on
one side, the need of speaking of me and, on the other, a little shame
at returning with Madame de Volanges to the subject of a sentiment so
long disavowed have caused this great revolution. I fear that I have
lost by the change: for, the older women grow, the more crabbed and
severe do they become. The first would have told her far more ill of
me: but the latter will say more of love; and the sensitive prude has
far more fear of the sentiment than of the person.
The only means of getting at the facts, is, as you see, to intercept
the clandestine correspondence. I have already sent the order to my
_chasseur_; and I am daily awaiting its execution. So far, I can do
nothing except at random: thus, for the last week, I run my mind
in vain over all recognized means, all those in the novels and in
my private recollections; I can find none which befits either the
circumstances of the adventure or the character of the heroine. The
difficulty would not be to present myself before her, even in the
night, nor again to induce her slumber, and make of her a new Clarissa:
but, after more than two months of care and trouble, to have recourse
to means which are foreign to me! To follow slavishly in the tracks
of others, and triumph without glory!... No, she shall not have _the
pleasures of vice and the honours of virtue_.[6] ’Tis not enough for
me to possess her, I wish her to give herself. Now, for that, I need
not only to penetrate to her presence, but to reach her by her own
consent; to find her alone and with the intention of listening to me;
above all, to close her eyes as to the danger; for if she sees it, she
will know how to surmount it or to die. But the more clearly I see what
I need to do, the more difficult do I find its execution; and though
it should induce you to laugh at me once more, I will confess that
my embarrassment is enhanced in proportion to the extent to which it
occupies me.
My brain would reel, I think, were it not for the lucky distraction
which our common pupil affords me; I owe it to her that I have still
something else to do than compose elegies. Would you believe that this
little girl had taken such fright that three whole days passed before
your letter produced its effect? ’Tis thus that one false idea can
spoil the most fortunate nature! In short, it was not until Saturday
that she came and hovered round me, and stammered out a few words, and
those pronounced in so low a voice, so stifled with shame, that it was
impossible to hear them. But the blush which accompanied them made me
guess their sense. Thus far, I had retained my pride: but, subdued by
so pleasant a repentance, I consented to promise a visit to the fair
penitent that same evening; and this grace on my part was received with
all the gratitude that so great a condescension demanded.
As I never lose sight either of your projects or my own, I resolved
to profit by this occasion to gain a just estimate of the child’s
value, and also to accelerate her education. But to pursue this work
with greater freedom, I found it necessary to change the place of our
_rendez-vous_; for a simple closet, which separates your pupil’s room
from that of her mother, could not inspire sufficient security to allow
her to reveal herself at her ease. I promised myself then _innocently_
to make some noise, which would cause her enough alarm to induce her,
for the future, to seek a safer asylum; this trouble she spared me
again.
The little person loves laughter; and to promote her gaiety, I
bethought myself, during our _entr’actes_, to relate to her all the
scandalous anecdotes which occurred to my mind; and, so as to render
them more piquant and better to fix her attention, I attributed
them all to her mother, whom I was thus pleased to bedaub with vice
and ridicule. It was not without motive that I made this choice; it
encouraged my timid school-girl better than anything else, and I
inspired her, at the same time, with the most profound contempt for
her mother. I have long remarked that, if it be not always necessary
to employ this means to seduce a young girl, it is indispensable, and
often even the most efficacious, when one wishes to deprave her; for
she who does not respect her mother will not respect herself: a moral
truth which I hold to be so useful that I have been glad indeed to have
furnished an example in support of the precept.
Meanwhile, your pupil, who had no thought of morals, was stifling her
laughter every moment; finally, she had almost thought to have burst
out with it. I had no difficulty in persuading her that she had made _a
terrible noise_. I feigned a huge fright, which she easily shared. That
she might the better remember it, I did not give way to the pleasure
of a reappearance, and left her alone, three hours earlier than was
customary; we agreed, therefore, on separating, that, from the morrow,
it was in my room that we should meet.